


who is she?

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally, Russian Royalty RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Royalty, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-27 06:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13875558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: She’s knocked against the wall, and let’s out a grunt that is more shock than pain. When she opens her eyes wide, she is just able to catch a t-shirt clad back racing down the sidewalk ahead of them... with a suspicious bag tucked under his arm.Marie lets out a shrill cry. “My purse! He grabbed my purse!”Anastasia doesn’t think. She takes off running.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> you know i'm too deep in a fandom when i start making up AUs, but here I am
> 
> so, basically this is a modern setting in which the romanovs aren't royalty, but a major corporate conglomerate with a lot of influence in russia. anastasia and her sisters are heiresses, so they've very protected and sheltered, but get a lot of publicity -- kinda like princesses. dmitry's still a street kid here.

On their long walks home from the hospital, Anastasia likes to kick pebbles across the sidewalk, stomp on every crack she can, and pretend the city is hers to explore.

Sometimes she chatters, but her sister is always at her most talkative after visits to the hospital, so she’s happy to let Marie take the reins. She never actually _listens_ to Marie prattle on because, well... her gossip about the handsome soldiers is about as interesting as watching paint dry. Marie loves the boys they get to meet while volunteering at the hospital; she’ll sit there and chat  for hours, ardently trying to pretend she isn’t making heart eyes at them. Anastasia isn’t so inclined. She doesn’t get flighty over boys like her older sister, and certainly not while she’s at the hospital to do her _job_.

(Her _first ever job._ A job she’s very excited to have, even if she isn’t actually getting paid, and her Aunt Ella technically owns the hospital. It counts.)

She knows how to focus. She’s got a one-track mind. She doesn’t get distracted by _anything,_ especially not a handsome face.

(If Marie heard her say this out loud, she suspects her sister would laugh.)

Today is like any other day. The afternoon is warm, the city wide open around them. The ruckus of traffic and scent of asphalt and humanity sends Anastasia’s pulse thrumming, her mind racing with a thousand possibilities. This is the time she feels most free — the _only_ time she ever feels free. Away from body guards and security cameras at home, from all the informants at the hospital who will tell their anxious parents how their daughters are doing. She and Marie only get twenty minutes to themselves, to walk the safe, well-travelled city path back to the Peterhof (her father’s luxury building, the one he uses for family instead of work; the place Anastasia and her siblings have grown up). She savors those minutes like the sweet taste of Parisian chocolate. They are rare, but mean everything. For just a few minutes, she gets to be a normal girl.

Not Anastasia Romanov, youngest daughter of the man who’s corporations control so much of Russia that he could easily be called the  _Tsar_. Not one of four sisters, tabloid darlings, whose faces have appeared in every magazine throughout the country, and the world. For a few fleeting moments, she is just Anastasia.

She _adores_  it.

As Marie chatters, Anastasia — as usual — isn’t really listening. She strolls idly down the sidewalk, nudging a pebble with the toe of her converse sneakers, not thinking about much of anything. Maybe tonight they’ll have borscht for dinner. Maybe cook Robinskaya will make some of her blinis, the ones Tatiana and Alexei love so much. Maybe they’ll even have new chocolates...

“Nastya? Are you listening?”

Anastasia spares her sister a distracted glance. “Hmm? Yeah.”

Marie pouts. “I don’t think you are.”

And she isn’t, really. She couldn’t care less about what Marie has to say at all — and she’s just opened her mouth to tell her so when a sudden blur speeds past them, and bowls Marie right into her.

 _This_ gets Anastasia’s attention.

She is knocked full-bodily against the wall. The grunt that escapes her is is more from shock than pain. When she opens her eyes wide, she is just able to catch a t-shirt clad back racing down the sidewalk ahead of them... with a suspicious bag tucked under his arm.

A shrill cry rises up from her sister. “My purse!” Marie exclaims. “He grabbed my purse!”

The purse with their money in it. The credit cards their father so carefully manages. Their IDs. Anastasia’s _phone_.

She doesn’t think. She takes off running.

If they were back at home, back at _Romanov Industries_ with her father’s bodyguards and security team, the thief wouldn’t have gotten ten feet. They don’t have anyone else, though; they’re alone in the middle of Petersburg, with only each other. Anastasia had been the one who begged their parents for _weeks_ to let them walk home on their own, until they finally caved in.

If she loses this purse, she won’t just be losing their trust. She’ll be losing any hope she’s got of freedom for the rest of her _life._ (Forget her eighteenth birthday, her parents won’t let her out of the house alone until she’s forty.)

These precious moments of liberty are all that she’s got. She doesn’t just treasure them, she _needs_ them.

No way is she letting some idiot thief steal that from her.

* * *

The girl on his tail is fast, but Dmitry is faster.

A run-of-the-mill robbery is always fun, but there’s nothing like the thrill of the chase. Most of the time, upper-class types like the two girls he snatched the purse from never bother to go after him — maybe they’re afraid of what a street thug might do if they caught up to him, or maybe they just don’t feel like getting their Louis Vuitton’s dirty. This girl has no such qualms, however. She races through the streets after him, arms pumping, feet kicking up dust behind her. She’s not just determined, she’s _fast._ It’s like she’s possessed by the ghost of one of those long distance runners Dmitry useed to watch on the Olympics as a kid.

She’s catching up.

He scolds himself for a momentary flash of alarm. There’s no point losing his head; no way is she going to catch him. Dmitry forces himself to keep looking ahead and adds on the speed. All he needs to do is shake this girl from his tail. Ducking down a few alleyways should do the trick.

He makes one turn, and the girl follows him. When he leads into another alleyway more narrow and foreboding than the last, she doesn’t seem to care — she just charges on ahead. Clearly, this girl‘s got no sense of self-preservation, which Dmitry can respect; but that also makes him  wary. If she _does_ catch up to him, who knows what she’s reckless enough to do?

He almost considers just throwing the purse back at her, but he’s not that desperate. Cash has been scarce lately, and he _needs_ to eat. The way these girls are dressed, they’ve probably got more money than they know what to do with.

He ducks down one more alley, and is met with an unexpected truck blocking his path at the opposite end. This is where he falters; and that’s all the opportunity the girl needs.

“Drop it _right now!”_

Thunder booms in her voice; Dmitry swears he’s struck by lightning, because that’s the only way he can comprehend what happens next. He stumbles over his own feet, and the purse goes flying from his arms as if ripped away by an unseen force. It tumbles down the alley, and the next thing Dmitry knows, he’s sent rolling after it when a massive force slams into his back.

Dmitry hits the pavement hard. For a moment, he sees stars. When they clear up, he finds Terminator Girl standing over him, blazing with righteous fury.

She shouldn’t look at threatening as she does, because the girl is _tiny._ She’s maybe all of 5’2”, with hair pulled up in a messy half-ponytail. Her hands are clenched into small fists, but her eyes are blazing. Dmitry would never feel afraid of such a small girl as a rule, but there’s something about her that makes him feel...

Well, he doesn’t know _how_ to describe it.

He flounders for a moment before he settles on angry. _Really_ angry, because this girl just _shoved him_ to the ground.

“What’s the big idea?” he demands, scrambling to his feet. “You wanna crack my head open?”

“What are you doing stealing my sister’s purse?” the girl fires back, just as Dmitry manages to regain his footing. She makes to lunge at him, and he almost loses his balance again. “What’s _wrong_ with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?”

“You stole our purse!”

“You tried to kill me!”

She laughs, loud and brash, like a horse with some oats stuck in its teeth. When she levels her glare on him, he can’t help glaring right back. Everything about this girl sets him on edge, and he’s not sure why.

“How come you stole our stuff?” she demands, taking a step closer. Dmitry holds his ground.

“I need money,” he replies, because there’s no reason to lie. “Cash. What’s it to you?”

The girl gapes at him, incredulous. She’d wear the same expression if she was watching monkeys at the zoo, or seeing someone skinny dip in the Neva. Dmitry feels naked himself under that wide-eyed stare. “We don’t have _cash,_ idiot! Who carries cash on them nowadays?”

“Sensible people!” he exclaims, furiously defensive.

“People who want to get robbed!”

And, okay, he can’t really argue with that one.

Her eyes dart to the purse. He catches the movement at the exact moment she lunges. Dmitry doesn’t think twice, throwing himself at the purse. The girl is on his back in the next moment. She tugs at his clothes, his hair, anything she can get her hands on. He lets out a yelp of pain, and suddenly the tussle is less about getting the purse and more getting her _off_ of him.

He manages to kick her away, and she grunts as she’s knocked back; but the next second, she hauls Dmitry up by the front of his shirt and slams him against the wall.

“Listen here,” she hisses. “That’s _our_ purse, _mine,_ and if you think you can just _take it_ from us —“

Dmitry can’t focus on another word after that, even though he knows he really should — but the instant proximity knocks all the sense out of his head. All of a sudden, all he can see is this girl. He feels her arm pressing against his collar, pinning him in place. Her eyes, narrow and furious, burn into him like blue fire. Her hair flies wildly about her face, freckles dance across her nose, and her lips —

Her lips are perfect. They’re pink and full, a wonderful cupid’s bow, and he’s never seen anything like them in his life.

All of a sudden, this girl is all he can see; she’s his entire world. She isn’t stunning, she might not even be called beautiful, but she steals his breath away. (And not just because she’s pressing on his neck.)

“Are you — are you even listening to me?”

She leans back from him, brows furrowed. Now she doesn’t look as angry as she does insulted.

“Hey,” he says, feeling a little dazed. “Have I... seen you somewhere before?”

The girl releases him all at once, and the spell is broken. The pressure leaves Dmitry’s collar. He can breathe again, which is more than a relief, but he’s still distracted by everything about this girl. Her eyes, her voice, the heat of her skin, the flushed curve of her lips...

“Maybe,” she replies. This time her voice is gruff, callous. “If you’ve ever watched the news.”

“What’s on the news?”

She looks up at him, eyes flashing with something unreadable. “Haven’t you ever heard of _Romanov Industries?”_

Sure he has. _Romanov Industries_ pretty much owns Petersburg. They have a virtual monopoly on the production of steel and plastic products throughout all of Russia, and the company is so rich that they’re practically untouchable. It’s a family business, passed down for generations, but everyone knows Nicholas Romanov (maybe the richest man in Russia) and his family are as good as royalty.

He takes a long, close look at the girl in front of him. _Wait..._

She doesn’t give him time to figure it out. She snatches the purse off of the ground, sends him a fierce, victorious look, and kicks some dirt in his direction. “Thanks for that. I needed a workout today.”

Nicholas Romanov has five kids, if Dmitry remembers: four daughters and a son. They youngest girl was named Anna, or Anya... something like that...

“Are you one of the Romanov daughters?”

She doesn’t reply; instead, she brushes the name off, as if it means nothing to her. She fixes the end of the alley with her frown.

“Which way back to the street?”

Dmitry gazes at her for a moment, utterly incredulous; then he sighs. “Down this alley, make a left, follow straight down.”

She smiles again, those perfect lips curving in a way that should not make him feel as warm as it does. “Thank you,” she chirps; just like that, she’s gone.

Dmitry stares after her, feeling stunned. It’s like he got caught in a lightning storm, as is struggling to regain his bearings in the aftermath. His body aches; his head still spins with the memory of her mouth so very close to his. He could feel her words against his skin, steal the warmth of her breath...

 _Anastasia,_ he finally remembers. _Her name was Anastasia._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many people wanted to see this continued that I’m turning it into a multi chapter after all! I revamped part one a bit, so check it out before reading this!
> 
> (Also, I love the Romanov family. Have I mentioned that? Bc I do. Imaging how they’d be/live in modern day is so much FUN.)

Anastasia would have been very happy not to say a word about the whole purse-snatcher incident to the rest of her family. Actually, as soon as the towering Romanov Industries headquarters is in sight, her lips are already sealed, even as she clutches the purse to her chest like a trophy.

She shoots Marie a warning look as they climb into the elevator. “Don’t say anything.”

Of course, her sister has never heard of keeping her mouth shut.

“You won’t believe what happened,” is the first thing that leaves her mouth when she finds Olga, Tatiana, and Alexei in the penthouse living room. “We were robbed!”

Olga and Tatiana look up from their game of Scrabble sharply; Alexei leaps up so fast that he nearly overturns the board. “Robbed? What did they steal?”

Tatiana’s intense gaze is immediately running over her sisters, scanning them for any kind of harm. “Did they hurt you?”

“Did they pull out a knife?” Alexei demands.

“Aloysha, stop it!” Olga is already on her feet, but Anastasia doesn’t give her the chance to activate her full Big Sister Mode. She leaps over the back of the couch and lands hard next to Tatiana, dropping the purse in her lap. The cat’s out of the bag, so she may as well tell the story. “He stole this. And I got it back.”

“Nastya was amazing,” Marie adds, perching on the couch’s arm. “She ran after the thief, and somehow got the purse from him.”

“He was hardly a thief,” Anastasia scoffs. “Just a scrawny boy. He wasn’t older than Tatiana.”

“That’s still older than you,” Tatiana retorts. She has that tense look on her face, the one that means she’s worried. She cups Anastasia’s chin to check for any injuries. Anastasia twists out of her grasp.

“What did you do, Nastya?” Alexei demands, leaning towards her. Anastasia grins, kicking her feet up on the table.

“I tackled him. Knocked him over! Then I slammed him against the wall and told him if he didn’t give out purse back _right now_ —“

“You did not,” Olga interjects. Anastasia shoots her a fierce glower.

“And then,” she continues in a louder voice, “I threw him to the ground! And he was so impressed that he said, ‘just take the purse! I don’t want it! You’re stronger than me!’ And then he started _crying_ —“

“What are you talking about, Anastasia?”

Her voice cuts off in her throat. Anastasia’s eyes go wide. She catches the stunned stare of Olga first, then Marie’s gape, and the way Tatiana straightens up on instinct. None of them are looking at her. They’re all staring over her shoulder, in the direction of a very familiar voice.

“Mama.” Anastasia paints a grin on her face as she turns to face her mother. “We’re home! We missed you!”

Her mother walks slowly into the room — it’s a bad day for her pain, and her heart has been causing her problems since early this morning. That didn’t keep her from texting Anastasia ten times while they were at the hospital, but she wouldn’t expect anything less from Mama.

Her body may be abusing her, but her mind is sharp as ever. Anastasia’s mother keeps a sharp-eyed frown trained on her youngest daughter. Anastasia swallows instinctively.

“Did you get into trouble walking home from the hospital?”

She hears the apprehension in her mother’s voice. Her eyes widen, only by a fraction.

If her mother finds out about the thief, she’ll never let any of them out of the house without a bodyguard again. She’ll be convinced it was another assassination attempt, this time targeting the girls instead of their father. She might have another nervous episode — or worse, she’ll devote all that anxious energy into keeping her children _safe_ in the penthouse for the next year.

All of this flashes through Anastasia’s head in an instant; and she _knows_ her mother cannot find out what happened today.

“Of course not, Mama,” she replies with an easy grin. “I was just talking about a video game!”

Behind her, Tatiana shifts. Anastasia is at once painfully aware of each one of her siblings. One wrong word from them, and it’s game over. If one person decides to tell the truth, they’ll _all_ go down.

Thankfully, every one of the Romanov children realizes this. If their thought processes weren’t identical to Anastasia’s, they at least come to the same conclusion. _No one tells Mama._

“It’s one of mine!” Alexei pipes up. “Nastya wants to show me how to play it.”

“It reminds me of a movie I saw once,” Tatiana pipes up. “I’m not one for video games, but a little action is always fun.”

“Except in real life,” adds Marie. “Real life action isn’t fun at _all.”_

“No action here,” adds Olga, slapping the table with her hand. “Just Scrabble. Fun! And educational.”

They all smile up at their mother. You could hear a pin drop.

Finally, their mother rolls her eyes. Whatever her children are up to, she decides she’s better off not knowing. As long as they’re all in one piece, happy, and not in any danger, they’ll be fine. She vanished into the kitchen, and Anastasia huffs a sigh of relief.

“I don’t like those walks,” their mother calls from out of the room. The sound of pills clinking around in her medicine cabinet echoes through the house. “They’re far too dangerous. I’d feel much better if you’d agree to take a guard with you. How about Sergei? Sergei is very discreet.”

Sergei is six-foot-four and is built like a bear. No one says _bodyguard and trained counter-assassin_ quite like Sergei.

“That’s really not necessary, Mama,” Anastasia replies; she can’t help but add, “we’ve talked about this before! I’m fine!”

“Right, because nothing interesting ever happens on those walks home,” Tatiana adds under her breath. Anastasia kicks her.

When their mother emerges from the kitchen, she’s got a glass of water in hand and pulls in the other. She stares at Anastasia for a moment before shaking her head.

“I worry about you, Nastya,” is all she says, before vanishing into her Lavender Room once more.

A wave of guilt washes over Anastasia; but it ebbs and is gone in an instant. When she turns back to her siblings, victory is shining on her face. She and Alexei exchange a light high-five.

When she goes in for Tatiana, her sister stares at her hand for a long second before slapping it down. “No.”

Anastasia pouts. Olga leans over Tatiana’s shoulder, rolling her eyes.

“Never be foolish like that, Nastya. That man could have hurt you. He could have kidnapped you!”

“He wasn’t a man, he was a boy! And it wasn’t like that!”

“You don’t know that,” Tatiana retorts. “It’s too much to ask you not to be foolish, but at least don’t be reckless. Use your head before rushing into things. If you wind up hurt one day, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

Anastasia flowers at her sister for a chilly moment. Tatiana stares back, uncowed. When Anastasia turns to Marie for support, her sister — who only minutes ago called her “amazing” — shrinks back.

“They’ve got a point, Nastya,” she murmurs. “I was really afraid. Don’t do that again.”

Anastasia’s eyes widen. She springs to her feet, lips curling back in disgust as she takes in her three traitorous siblings.

“Are you serious? I save the day, and I tell you exactly what happened — and you still act like I did something wrong? Why is it that whenever I do anything interesting, it’s _always wrong?_ Why am I always doing a _bad_ thing? Who are you to tell me I shouldn’t have done what I did?”

“We’re your fa—“ Tatiana starts. Anastasia doesn’t want to hear it.

She turns on her heel and storms away — licking the Scrabble board off the table for good measure. She hears footsteps follow her down the hallway, and Alexei’s soft call of “wait, Nastya!”

She’s not in the mood. She slams her bedroom door, locks it, and flops down on the bed.

After a few moment, her brother’s insistent knocking at the door fades away, and Anastasia is left to fume in silence.

* * *

Dinner is an obnoxiously normal affair. Mama’s friend Anna eats with them again, sitting in Papa’s usual place (he has to work late at the office again). Everyone else is in a fine, chatty mood. If anyone notices Anastasia’s silence, they don’t bring it up.

It is only late that night, while lying in bed with her sister on the other side of the room, that anyone dares to broach the topic of today’s argument.

“Anastasia?” Marie’s tentative voice floats through the darkness. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to upset you.”

Anastasia grits her teeth. Apologies from Marie are the worst, because they always make you feel like you’re in the wrong. The worst thing is, her sister doesn’t even _mean_ to do it.

“Don’t apologize,” she says through gritted teeth. “I mean it.”

“I just… don’t think you should put yourself in danger like that again. If anything happened to you… Mama and Papa would be devastated. We all would. We love you too much. And if that boy had been bad… well, no one knows what could have happened. It’s only because we love you, alright?”

Anastasia grits her teeth. She understands that her family loves her. He’s never doubted that for a second she’s been alive. Her entire world is filled with so much _love_ that she feels like she’s drowning in it.

All she wants it to claw her way to the surface — just for a moment — and take a breath of fresh air.

Today had been more than a breath; it was a lungful. A rush like none she ever experienced before. And when she thinks of that boy’s eyes, his stunned face, the way he felt so pliant in her grip…

All of a sudden, she knows what she has to do.

“Yeah. Alright,” she mutters to Marie. “I promise to be safe from now on.”

She can’t see Marie smile in the darkness, but she can hear it. “Thank you, Nastya. I love you.”

Anastasia squeezes her eyes shut, and thinks of the boy’s face. “I love you too.”

* * *

They don’t have hospital volunteer duties again until next Tuesday — so on Saturday, Anastasia comes down with a mysterious headache. She wants nothing but to lie in bed all day and not be disturbed. These directions are communicated to her mother and sisters by Marie; they all fuss through the door at her, as she knew they would, but finally go silent to “let the poor child sleep”.

As soon as they do, Anastasia dives out and under her bed. She pulls out a one of her father’s jackets, and the hat she borrowed from Alexei. She tucks her hair up beneath the hat, hiding it all from view; she pulls the heavy jacket on over her t-shirt and jeans; then she slips a pair of sunglasses into her face.

Slipping out of the penthouse is the tricky part; but once she’s out the door, she’s home free. No one questions her as she descends 30 stories in the elevator, and walks straight out of the lobby.

She slips the glasses in her pocket once she’s outside, and peers down the street. She only has to search for a moment before she remembers exactly where she saw the boy last, and her feet carry her there of their own accord.

She isn’t really expecting him to be there. When she catches a glimpse of two scrawny legs dangling from a building ledge, a short drop above the alleyway, she stops and cranes her neck up. Her hands land on her hips.

“You again,” the boy calls down. He doesn’t sound pleased to see her. “What do you want?”

“We never introduced ourselves properly!” she answers. “My name’s Anya. What’s yours?”

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Because when you meet someone, the first thing to do is tell them your name.” She narrows her eyes at him. “You _do_ have name, right?”

“Of course I do!” The boy sounds incensed; it’s just the reaction she wanted. He drops the short distance to the pavement with ease, and scowls back at her. “It’s Dmitry. Are you really a Romanov?”

“Are you really homeless?”

For a second, neither of them say a word. Then Dmitry throws up his hands, like he gives up. Anya grins in victory. She knows when she’s won.

“What do you want?” he demands again. She empties out the pockets of her coat to reveal nothing but air, and shrugs at him.

“Everyone keeps telling me you’re a bad guy. I don’t think I believe them. So…” She places her hands on her hips and grins. “Where are some places to have fun around here?”

The boy stares at her for a long moment. An incredulous smirk slowly spreads across his face.

Anya smirks back, glowing with pride. The best laid plans, as it turns out, work out in her favor after all.

“I’ve got just the place,” Dmitry announces. “Anya, have you ever snuck into a movie theatre before?”


End file.
